


Keep You in the Dark

by IndefiniteHeaven



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Character Death, Depression, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 3 AU, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, but with an actual plot to it, this is kinda a vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 10:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndefiniteHeaven/pseuds/IndefiniteHeaven
Summary: Hands getting coldLosing feeling is getting oldWas I made from a broken mold?Hurt, I can’t shakeWe’ve made every mistakeOnly you know the way I break“idontwannabeyouanymore” by Billie Eilish“I-I can’t do this anymore,” Sherlock sobbed, hands shaking as he clung to the other, tears streaming down his face. “I-I can’t live like this anymore.”





	1. Chapter 1

** _ Chapter 1 _ **

Its crisp Monday morning, the being of June grasping ahold of London, unusually chilled for summer. The clouds were thick in the sky, blocking out the entirety of the sun, swallowing the light of the city. On a empty, quaint street sat flat 221A, with a simple woman, old in her age owning it, while above, she rented out 221B.

The one that lived and breathed above her was anything but simple though. In that tiny apartment sat a porcelain skinned curly-haired man. He sat in a floral decking seat, that had clearly seen better days. His legs were pulled up to his chest, arms tight across them in an uncomfortable manner. He was clearly distressed, face paler than usual, yet his cheeks were flushed dark red, tears rolling down them. He released a choked gasp in response to realizing what was about to happen. One of his hands released his legs, grabbing onto the arm of the chair. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping hoarsely into the room. He heard a shout downstairs-Mrs. Hudson, quite alarmed-and the sound of multiple pairs of feet pounding up the stairs. He released a series of choked noises, spit blubbering from his mouth, unable to properly control his panic.

The door flew open suddenly, the wood blistering open, spitters flying inside. He flinched violently, a what seemed to be the entirety of Scotland Yard flooded in, shouting at him. He opened his eyes, trembling, being met with multiple guns pointed at him. He didn’t know most of the officers screaming at him furiously, though he recognized one amongst the crowd of strangers.

The man didn’t hold a gun or shout at him. Detective Gregory Lestrade seemed grim, as though expecting the worse of the scene before him. One of the officers grabbed at the hysterical man, pushing him to the floor. He didn’t move a muscle, allowing himself to have a knee being pressed to his lower back. Lestrade looked away, facing towards the door. The man accepted his fate and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be handcuffed, hauled to his feet. He knew his rights were being read, but he didn’t listen, simply reopened his eyes, no longer blubbering.

As he was led downstairs, Mrs. Hudson shrieked at the officers, crying in horror at the sight of him in handcuffs. He didn’t make eye contact with her, ashamed that she had to finally see her fears come true. He left the safety of 221, being shoved violently into one of the many police cars. He made the mistake of looking out the window, to get one more chance if home, instead being met with the sight of Lestrade, straight faced, a single tear streaking down his face.

Sherlock Holmes was driven away, never to see home again.

*

Sherlock didn’t retreat to his mind palace, simply stared at the wall beyond the officer interrogating him. He hasn’t been asked anything beyond his name and date of birth yet, but he was already having trouble focusing on the older man’s words. He hadn’t even figured out anything about the personal life of the man. It was disorienting to be pulled not only from his home, but his mind palace for that matter. He couldn’t even find the mental strength to multi-task as he usual could. “Holmes!”

Sherlock blinked slowly, staring at the name tag hovering in his line of vision. It took longer than necessary for his mind to reset itself and for his lips to produce noise. “Garrison.”

“That’s Officer Garrison! And, I was asking you if you have ingested any drugs for the past 24 hours?”

”No.”

“Are you lying?”

Sherlock stared at him-mother is a doctor, taught him to study physical reactions to probing, has a full grown daughter, possibly a dog as well, wife has passed-a brief bit of himself coming through. His voice came out monotoned. “You tell me.”

Garrison glared at him, studying his physical features, before writing something down on his clipboard. “Where were you last night, between 2200 to 2400?”

He blinked in response. “I don’t know.”

Garrison raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know you say?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Ok, well maybe I should jog your memory,” He slid a document forward, open for Sherlock to see. “Recognize this?”

He glanced down at the image, a security camera still, showing him walking down an alley in the middle of London, the time stamp frozen at 22:33 in the right hand corner. Sherlock looked back up, face blank. “No.”

“How about this?” The previous whisked away, replaced with another. This one said 22:56, his own face glaring up at the camera recording him, a clear ziploc bag of white powder held in his hand, appearing to start to shove it into his pocket. Clearly cocaine. “No.”

“This?” The next one was stamped 22:59, with him snorting it off of the sidewalk, lit by a streetlight, surrounded by the homeless, passed out around him. He could feet a cold sweat breaking out on the nape of his neck, not able to speak any longer. 

“Or how about these?” At 23:07, he is lingering outside of John Watson’s home, at 23:15 he is leaving with said military man. He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing painfully as he swallowed. The reply was stuck in his mouth and he couldn’t do a thing about it, nor did Garrison seem to care about it.

“This?” The detective is speaking to John at 23:20 in an alleyway, their faces barely seen by the distant glow of a street lamp. He isn’t given a chance to even answer, before the next is quickly presented. At 23:22, Sherlock is beating John Watson, kicking him viciously in the picture, face etched in fury. At the image, Sherlock abruptly leaned forward, throwing up across the table dividing the pair.

The officer leapt up from his chair, splatter managing to hit his shoes. Garrison glared at him, growling. “You piece of-!”

The door swung open, Lestrade entering, face serious. Sherlock was panting, sick dripping from his bottom lip, which he wiped away when he realized who had entered the interrogation room. “That’s enough, Garrison, I got it from here.”

“You know him too well; this is considered a conflict of interest for you perform questioning, Lestrade.”

“Yeah, yeah, complain to someone who cares.”

“I think I will then.” Garrison left the room hurriedly, glaring at the head detective before he made his exit. 

Lestrade didn’t say a word, simply stared at a wall opposite of Sherlock. He appeared to be thinking about what he would be asking, eyebrows furrowed. When he finally did speak, his words seemed careful, as though considering the weight of each one spoken. “...Mr. Holmes...are you aware of what this looks like to us?”

Sherlock stared at him, finding it unusual on the name choice, then glanced down at the mess he created on himself and the table in front of him. “...may I have a towel?”

Lestrade seemed to produce one from seemingly nowhere-he must have brought one in-handing it to the consulting detective. Sherlock leaned his face forward, his hands constricting by the cuffs, wiping his mouth off. He dropped the soiled towel onto the rest of the mess in front of him. The detective cleared his throat, mouth feeling grimy. “Water?”

A bottle was suddenly being offered to him. Sherlock nodded, taking it and swishing it around his mouth, spiting it back in the bottle, and recapping it. Despite the grossness of the action, Lestrade seemed to be unfazed by the action, instead continuing to speak. “Mr. Holmes, you claim to remember nothing, correct?”

“...yes.”

“You had quite the reaction to the stills though.”

“Yes...”

Lestrade glanced up the ceiling, mouth set in a grim line, before looking back to Sherlock. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

_Lie_ _like your life depends on it, because it does_.  “No, not at all.”

Lestrade stared at him, narrowing his eyes at the weak protest. “I thought maybe you would be better at lying than this.”

_ Lie, LIE LIELIELIE _ . “ I....uh....”

Lestrade frowned at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling as though he’s about to be ill again. His lips feel chapped, mouth fumbling uselessly. “I, uh, I’m, I...”

“Holmes?” Lestrade questioned, eyebrows furrowing once more. Sherlock gagged for a moment, hand flying to his mouth. He began to dry heave, one hand fisted at the table, the other covering his mouth. Lestrade stood for the table he was chained to, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. “Just breathe through it; it will stop in a moment.” 

Sherlock continued as he was for a minute, before slouching in his seat, panting once more. “Are you going to be sick again?”

”...no.”

”Alright...I’ll ask you once more, what do you remember about the incident with the victim?”

The victim. Sherlock felt like he was about to lose his lunch once more, before he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply. “I don’t remember what happened to...the victim. The images presented to me earlier indicate that I was indeed preset at the scene of the crime when it has occurred. The last thing I remember was waking up in 221B this morning and London Yard entering my flat.”

”If that is the case, how come it looked as though you were expecting us to enter the premises?”

“...”

”Or, better yet, why Mrs. Hudson state that you had come in late the evening before, and paced the flat above for a number of hours?”

”I don’t remember that.”

”Do you remember the blood covering your coat that you left in the bathroom, or using the bathtub to wash away the evidence and left smears of blood across the room?”

”I don’t remember that either.”

Lestrade was beside him once more, voice low, as though he was trying to not let the camera record his words. “Sherlock, I can’t make sense of this situation or how you could even do...do this. I need something, please.”

”I don’t remember anything other than this morning.”

”I really do doubt that and I was hoping we could do this nicely, before Garrison came back and decided to play the ‘bad cop’. Sherlock, as a favor for everything you’ve done, I’m giving you a chance to set the record straight and give an explanation. I can’t imagine you doing this without reason.”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes betraying no emotion, before he spoke quietly. “I believe I’m going to become unconscious in a moment here.”

Lestrade frowned at the words that were spoken, opening his mouth to voice his confusion at Sherlock’s words. The consulting detective’s vision whited out after this sight, eyes rolling upwards into his skull. Distantly he was aware that he had begun to shake uncontrollable, realizing that he had begun seizing, before blacking entirely, his name being shouted worriedly, echoing into the darkness surrounding him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hands getting cold  
Losing feeling is getting old  
Was I made from a broken mold?  
Hurt, I can’t shake  
We’ve made every mistake  
Only you know the way I break
> 
> “idontwannabeyouanymore” by Billie Eilish
> 
> “I-I can’t do this anymore,” Sherlock sobbed, hands shaking as he clung to the other, tears streaming down his face. “I-I can’t live like this anymore.”

He awoke with a start, the dredges of his dreams immediately forgotten, left with a feeling of illness. The sweat clinging to his skin felt cooled, as though he had grown too hot awhile ago. The air was chilled and smelt of sterile cleanliness. Sherlock had awoken enough times here to know where he was. The detective had a vague idea as to why. His heart monitor had remained steady and he sighed wearily at the thought of who would before him, once he opened his eyes. He did so, regretting the action, as his eyes burned painfully for the fluorescent lighting. “...how long was I out?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to check who was beside his bed, as he knew it was always the same person that we be beside him each time he would the hospital. The voice came out steady, though with a hint of impatience tinged in his tone. “Five hours.”

Sherlock stared at the blank wall ahead of him, his eyes finally adjusting to the creamy whiteness of his room. The older man beside him adjusted his petticoat, face blank as he continued to speak. “Do you have any idea the trouble you are in?”

He didn’t respond to the disappointed words. His older brother continued on, voice weary. “Sherlock...there is only so many times my influence can save you, but for god’s sake, you attacked John Watson.”

The voice had sounded incredulous by the end of the sentence, the usual semblance of calm that Mycroft Holmes had oozed out, bleeding into a unknown tone. “Where did the cocaine come from this time? What is the dealer’s name?”

“...I don’t know.” He whispered, voice blank as his face was.

“Sherlock, even after everything, you still refuse to to acknowledge what you have done?” There was a moment of silence, before Mycroft sighed, weary once more at the younger Holmes. “...you had a grand mal seizure, due to the amount of cocaine in your system. It seemed after attacking John Watson you consumed more cocaine, before returning to 221B.”

“...where is the bag?”

“That’s the question I should be asking you, dear brother. It seems to be missing from your flat and the scene of the crime.”

He felt one of the gears in his head turn slightly, before it ceased movement. A mild interest, a mystery for him to solve. His sluggish brain didn’t seem to be to plow for the haze hovering around his exhausted brain. Sherlock turned to his older brother, another question on his lips, attempting to focus on the problem at hand. “Is the footage real?”

“Yes.”

“Was it confirmed that it was I in the film?”

“Yes.”

“Am-?”

“Sherlock, enough,” Though his voice remained the same, his voice sounded irritated, which was enough to cause a well of panic inside of Sherlock. “If you do not begin answering soon, Scotland Yard will have to resort to drastic charges for what you have done.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, speaking barely above a whisper. “...is he...?”

“...John Watson is in serious condition. They had to induce a coma. He couldn’t even form a coherent sentence when he was stumbled upon and had lost 41% of his blood. It was a miracle that he was even awake after losing that much in over the past 24 hours. By all means he should have been in an coma without medical assistance, yet he was managed to stay conscious after nearing the point of no return.”

Sherlock’s hands shook at the words, though his face betrayed not an ounce of emotion. “...has his body refused a transfusion?”

“Yes, multiple times in fact. The last dose has barely taken effect, which is hardly an improvement at all. His body could still fully reject him at any moment. Sherlock, you broke open his jaw and part of his bone went up into his cheek bone and shredded the tissue surrounding it. He lost most of his blood from his mouth.”

Sherlock gagged at the words suddenly, Mycroft actually flinching at the action, in what appeared to be disgust. He didn’t move away from his brother, but didn’t make any move towards him either as he tried to control his body. Sherlock’s heart monitor was beeping erratically as he ceased the spasming of his gag reflex, panting heavily.

“I suppose I shouldn’t detail the rest of the injuries while I have you attempting to control yourself.”

“Tell me.”

“...five of his ribs are broken, one had punctured his left lung. His elbow was dislocated and his wrist broke out of his skin. His nose was broken and one of his eyelids was cut open. His head was struck such a number of times that they fear of brain damage and had to shave his head to clean the open wounds. A piece of broken glass in the alleyway managed to lodge itself into his thigh and one of his ankles was twisted from when he tried to run and fell over instead.”

Sherlock appeared to pale, cheeks a greenish hue at the words. Mycroft sighed, face appearing nearly bored at the sight. “You can control the reflex, you should know this by now, dear brother.”

“I’m fucking trying!” The consulting detective abruptly snarled at him, face a bright red color in response.

Mycroft frowned at him. “Careful brother, we wouldn’t want to fuel the theory that you are unhinged.”

Sherlock was panting, eyes squeezing painfully shut in response. The older Holmes continued to speak, as though this weren’t happening. “Why did you do it?”

_LIE. LIE RIGHT NOW_. “It was the cocaine.”

His brother stared into his eyes, frown deepening in response. “That is completely untrue and I know that the drug only amplifies the urges you already possess at the moment.”

_Lie, just lie_. “I thought he was someone else entirely and thought he was attacking me.”

“Please, brother, that sounds to be a feeble attempt at an excuse for your actions.”

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock’s voice trembled, bottom lip wobbled. “You never understand. You didn’t fucking understand anything I’ve ever needed you to do!”

Mycroft stood abruptly from his seat, face turning a shade of red, finally portraying the emotions he had been letting boil beneath the surface. “You don’t understand how many years I have protected you from every foolish action you have ever committed!”

“I haven’t needed any of your protection, Mycroft!” His wild curls bobbed around, voice straining as he shouted in return.

“Yes, you have! You have nearly ruined every opportunity given to you on a silver platter and I have fixed each mistake you you have had!”

“I didn’t need your help! I’ve never wanted it! I didn’t want anyone’s help!”

“There’s the Holmes reputation to think about here!”

“Damn the Holmes reputation: I have _never_ have cared about it!”

“I know you haven’t! You have to though! Like it or not you are a Holmes by blood and nothing will ever change that!”

“I know! I’m always a Holmes by blood and I always have to pay for it!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air. “Like how you have to deal with the bloody woes of being an addict!”

“I am not an addict!”

“Yes you are! You can’t stop yourself, no matter how much money I throw at professionals to fix you!”

“That’s what the damned problem is! If you didn’t expect other people to deal with me then I would have never had the-“ _Stop, don’t talk about that, stop_. Sherlock choked on his words, unable to speak, mouth snapping shut.

“Never what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, his heart monitor out of control by this point. He simply continued the conversation with a hushed tone. “I need a change of clothes.”

“Answer the question, Sherlock!”

“...Tell me why did you take so much time to get me out of Serbia?”

“This conversation isn’t about Serbia, this is about you assaulti-“

“Serbia is where the cocaine came from.”

He flatted his vest once more, sitting back down. “There were no bags on you after you returned here. You had a full medical search and there wasn’t any hiding in your cavities either.”

“I didn’t bring it from Serbia.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. “Are you implying that someone from Serbia came here simply to provide you with cocaine? Who would even bring you that?”

“I-“ _You don’t know. Say it. Say you have no idea_. “I have no idea.”

Mycrfot narrowed his eyes. “...Sherlock, I know you’re lying.”

His heart monitor jumped at the words and he tried to still his beating heart to no avail. His brother sighed. “Why can’t you just tell the truth, dear brother?”

“Because...because...” Sherlock felt his mouth freeze up, unable to think of an answer, his heart monitor noisy in his ears. He wanted to speak, yet not a single word came to mind. Mycroft stared at him cruelly and it was in that instantly that he knew he was about to lose his only ally, the one he never wanted until this exact instant. The words tumbled from his lips in desperation, the truth spilling out forcefully. “Because I didn’t think I ever needed anyone!”

“You ‘didn’t’?” Mycrfot asked, eyes turning to a shade of emotion Sherlock wasn’t familiar with until this instant.

He whispered out his lie. “Don’t... I don’t need anyone.”

Mycrfot’s cruelness returned immediately, with a sneer playing upon his lips. He rose from his seat, umbrella clenched tightly in his hands. “Well, then I’m don’t my presence here is necessary here then.”

He left, leaving Sherlock completely on his own for the first time ever in his life.

  
*  
Lestrade did eventually return to him, face blank as he entered the room. He face appeared weary, just as his brother’s had been. He had a smear of dark shadows below his eyes-restless sleep, stress, eyebrows permanently furrowed- and stared Sherlock down, voice clear as a bell when he spoke. “My only question is why?”

Sherlock gulped compulsively, avoiding eye contact. “I mistaken him for someone else.”

“So you tried killing him?” Sherlock didn’t answer as Lestrade shook his head. “No, that doesn’t seem right. In fact that doesn’t even seem your style. I honestly think that’s a load of bollocks. So, I’m going to ask you again: why?”

“I thought he was an-“

Lestrade was suddenly next to his bed, hand slamming onto the side table, anger played out viciously across his face. “God dammit Sherlock!”

The heart monitor went off the charts as he flinched away from the screaming man. His hands involuntary rose up to protect himself, the imagine of an unknown angry man beating his face in. Sherlock shook at the unfamiliar sight voice unexpectedly shouting out. His face felt a blinding pain strike him he jaw, shout cut off. Before he can even take a breath in, he was struck again, throat spasming at the next impact made. He felt rough, callused hands grip at his curls, lift his face up, before the other hand made forceful contact with his right eye.

The next blow suddenly stopped and a different face swam into his white spotted vision. The angry man was frozen, Sherlock hyperventilating at the sight. Tears were leaking of their own accord from his damp eyes, breathing ragged. He ceased doing so for a moment, the fight pressure of panic cutting off. He immediately realized where he was, hands shaking violently. The consulting detective didn’t look up at the other man, shame flooding him. “I-I-I-I...I apologize for my irrational reaction...it’s not...logical to behave like this.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what the bloody hell was that?”

_Backtrack, you’re completely fine_. His face went completely blank as he spoke the words, barely hearing himself speak. “Nothing.”

“Sherlock-“ At that moment a nurse knocked and entered his room. Lestrade turned to her in confusion and she leaned forward leaning forward to whisper low enough that he couldn’t hear or read the lips of what was being spoken. The detective nodded, face grimly set, before turning back to him. “I’ll be back, but we’re not done with this, Sherlock.”

He didn’t answer, closing his eyes to bury himself into his Mind Palace instead.

**Author's Note:**

> This set in an alternate season 3 of the series and will be pretty much going to be a vent story, so Sherlock is going to suffer a lot through out it. As in true Sherlock Holmes fashion though, there will be an actual mystery. This is actually my first fiction on AO3, though I’ve written a number of others under the same name on FanFiction before. I’ve been meaning to write a Sherlock piece for a number of years, yet I’ve only recently gotten around to doing so. I hope everyone enjoys this first chapter! Next update coming whenever I actually have time to edit and post.


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